Pixelated
I have to hide
Behind pixels of light
For fear of fire down my eyes
Innocent dots
Form letters, then words
As I try to hide my face
But not my thoughts
From you
The soonest you turn off your interest
The pixels begin to fade
unsure of their outcome
unaware of their purpose
- Pixels, 1993/1994
One of the oldest poems i made, Pixels was born back when the things that matter to me are now downright laughable, my angst was fueled by pettiness, and my main worry was having enough money for lunch.
Pathetic twerp that I am then, pathetic twerp with lunch money I am now.
I wrote this around 1993/1994, way before email, chatting, and blogging were bywords we casually roll off our tongues as we sashay the sidewalks while sipping our lattes and listen to our MP3 players. Hell, i wrote this when the Internet was a term spoken in hushed tones in computer labs (i personally was introduced to the wide wild web in 1995 when i moved to DPSI, who owned the monopoly of selling Macs then). PIxels came from the fact that I used to exchange diskettes with a close friend so we can read each other's letters via monochrome monitors in the comfort of our homes. It was dazzling the way my PC XT (all 8MHz and 40MB hard drive of it) would glow orange and lull me into hypnosis until i turn the pc off and wait until the last orange dot at the center of the screen fades into oblivion.
More than a decade later, with my angst twice removed and after witnessing the slow agonizing death of the 5 1/4" floppy, it's nice to know that the poem still holds water, and it seems a bit more applicable than it was before. Im still awake at 1 am and waiting for my monitor to completely shut itself off before i hit the sack.
And I still hide behind pixels - in the form of blogs, song lyrics, and vague quotations. And i shudder at the thought of being unmasked.
As for this miserable blog site, it is still unsure of its outcome and decidedly unaware of its purpose.
Behind pixels of light
For fear of fire down my eyes
Innocent dots
Form letters, then words
As I try to hide my face
But not my thoughts
From you
The soonest you turn off your interest
The pixels begin to fade
unsure of their outcome
unaware of their purpose
- Pixels, 1993/1994
One of the oldest poems i made, Pixels was born back when the things that matter to me are now downright laughable, my angst was fueled by pettiness, and my main worry was having enough money for lunch.
Pathetic twerp that I am then, pathetic twerp with lunch money I am now.
I wrote this around 1993/1994, way before email, chatting, and blogging were bywords we casually roll off our tongues as we sashay the sidewalks while sipping our lattes and listen to our MP3 players. Hell, i wrote this when the Internet was a term spoken in hushed tones in computer labs (i personally was introduced to the wide wild web in 1995 when i moved to DPSI, who owned the monopoly of selling Macs then). PIxels came from the fact that I used to exchange diskettes with a close friend so we can read each other's letters via monochrome monitors in the comfort of our homes. It was dazzling the way my PC XT (all 8MHz and 40MB hard drive of it) would glow orange and lull me into hypnosis until i turn the pc off and wait until the last orange dot at the center of the screen fades into oblivion.
More than a decade later, with my angst twice removed and after witnessing the slow agonizing death of the 5 1/4" floppy, it's nice to know that the poem still holds water, and it seems a bit more applicable than it was before. Im still awake at 1 am and waiting for my monitor to completely shut itself off before i hit the sack.
And I still hide behind pixels - in the form of blogs, song lyrics, and vague quotations. And i shudder at the thought of being unmasked.
As for this miserable blog site, it is still unsure of its outcome and decidedly unaware of its purpose.
Comments
Is this possible?